


take care

by Ias



Category: Les Misérables - All Media Types
Genre: Blow Jobs, Domestic, Established Relationship, M/M, Post-Seine
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-16
Updated: 2019-03-16
Packaged: 2019-11-19 08:31:39
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,244
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18133385
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ias/pseuds/Ias
Summary: "If you will not take care of yourself," Javert says as his hand slides to the back of Valjean's neck, tracing the warm skin just above the collar, "then that duty will by necessity fall to me.""I do not need to be cared for," Valjean starts to say, gently insistent—but he breaks off as Javert sinks to his knees beside him.





	take care

**Author's Note:**

> I was positively compelled to write this by the latest of Vincent's awesome drawings, which you can find [right here. ](https://nuizlaziart.tumblr.com/post/183500989012/i-did-a-little-sketch-then-amelia-wrote-a-whole)

"You look tired," Javert says.

Valjean looks up, interrupting the long study of the fire which has arrested his attention for the past hour. On the settee near the hearth, the firelight turns Valjean's white hair a rosy gold; yet it also darkens the lines at the corner of his eyes, the hard set of his mouth.

"I feel tired," Valjean admits at last, a wan smile on his lips.

The two of them had been out late that night distributing alms, Javert's hand tight on Valjean's arm when the most miserable and wild-eyed of the beggars had approached; but nothing had happened. Or at least, nothing which Javert had immediately perceived.

It's impossible to say what Valjean had seen to put such a look on his face now; to keep him sitting up and staring into the depths of the fire long into a night already dragging far later than is their custom, when they both should have been nestled up in bed long ago. It could have been the child toddling on a crutch, one pant leg trailing empty on the cobbles; it could have been the woman with a face so marred by disease she looked like an old woman, though the hands with which she grasped for coin were young. Javert will not, does not press Valjean for answers. He is no longer this man's interrogator and Valjean will speak when he wills.

"Were you waiting up for me?" Valjean says.

"Yes."

"You did not have to."

"I know." Javert's eyes travel the room, slow and appraising. The windows are shuttered against the cold and the night. The door is locked. The housekeeper, of course, has long been sent home. Nothing and no one to interrupt.

"Well, then. Shall we go to bed?" Valjean says.

Javert has never been a graceful man. He has prowled through alleyways not with the languid grace of a panther but rather the stiff, restless tread of a wolf. Nothing about him languid or smooth in a way which might avail him now, in this room, alone with the man he loves and more pointedly the man he wants. Yet as Javert crosses the room with the smart steps of a policeman and settles a hand on Valjean's shoulder, Valjean looks up at him with an expression which suggests that Javert's intent has not gone wholly unnoticed.

"If you will not take care of yourself," Javert says as his hand slides to the back of Valjean's neck, tracing the warm skin just above the collar, "then that duty will by necessity fall to me."

"I do not need to be cared for," Valjean starts to say, gently insistent—he breaks off as Javert sinks to his knees beside him. For a moment, the man's breath catches; but Javert is only reaching for his hand, to lift it to his lips and press a chaste kiss to the palm. Javert smiles up at him, breathing in the smell of Valjean's skin, the soap with which he washed. He allows a moment, only a moment, for Valjean to relax, to buy into the suggestion that Javert's sudden closeness is merely a symptom of tenderness.

Valjean's thumb caresses his cheek fondly; and that is when without warning or fanfare Javert gently presses the palm of his hand to the fork of Valjean's legs.

"Oh." The word falls from Valjean's lips, tremulous and unrestrained; and Javert could spend an eternity inside moments such as these, memorizing the expression on Valjean's face when he is first touched, the way it seems to open like a door on a dark night which spills out light and warmth. His eyes flutter closed, his brows raise as if in a question, his mouth falling open, a sliver of wet darkness—Javert stares without reservation or shame. He has not moved his hand, merely allows it to linger as a point of pressure and warmth against the stirring hardness beneath.

"Are you certain of that?" Javert says. He wants very much to lean in and press his face to the maddening sliver of neck above Valjean's cravat, but it is more important, given everything, to continue to watch his expression. He shifts his hand, rolls the heel; Valjean's breath hitches.

"Certain of what?" he says after a while.

"That you don't need to be cared for."

A breathy laugh escapes him. Valjean's hand slides from Javert's shoulder to his back, rubbing gentle, encouraging circles there. "In this manner, I will concede."

It is simplicity itself to echo the movements of Valjean's hand between his shoulders with the movement of Javert's hand on his cock. Valjean hums, his fingers flexing against Javert's back; through the fabric of his shirt and waistcoat Javert can feel the scrape of his nails.

"And what of the matter of your nightly strolls?" Javert says, pressing both figuratively and literally. Valjean squirms slightly in his seat, but his eyes open to meet Javert's with a rueful gaze only slightly lessened by the haze of lust in his eyes.

"This is an—interesting method of re-instigating that argument," Valjean manages to say.

"I have long abandoned the ambition of making you stop them entirely." Javert is squeezing him now, kneading the hard and heated flesh through the fabric of his trousers. "But you needn't stay out so late, nor venture so far into the slums."

"I must go where the need is greatest," Valjean says, and then gasps as Javert’s fingers trace the head of his member where it strains against his trousers. Javert knows well by now what sorts of touches Valjean likes best, and he provides all of them.

"The late hour, then. You might start earlier, and return sooner, and ensure I accompany you each time."

Valjean's head tips forward. His breath comes out ragged. "Yes. Very well. I suppose we might—we might try that—"

"Good," Javert says, and does not fail to note the shiver that moves through Valjean's body at the word. "While we are on the subject, you ought to attempt to sleep more. And eat more frequent meals."

" _Javert_ ," Valjean gasps, all need and exasperation, his hand tugging insistently on the hair tied at the back of Javert's neck; Javert's lips curl in a smirk that is in truth more fond than vindictive.

"Very well then," he says, his voice ever so soft.

He changes his position: shuffles so he is no longer sitting beside Valjean's knees, but rather between them. It's an ungainly and inelegant motion but he is in too much of a hurry to try for grace. It will not be long, now. The color has risen in Valjean's cheeks, spilling down his throat like wine.

A noise escapes him as Javert's hands unbutton his trousers; the noise becomes a short, bitten-off moan as Javert takes him into his mouth. A few strokes of his tongue, a few clumsy bobs of his head—it takes nothing more than that before Valjean is spilling, fingers pulling Javert's hair free from its binding, gentle hands made rough in the heat of desire. Javert loves it.

He closes his eyes and listens as Valjean's sharp cries become quiet sighs, and only when the man is slumped boneless beneath him does he pull his mouth away, button up his trousers, and brush the curls back from Valjean's brow with a hand that is tenderness itself.

"To bed, then," he says, and together they go.


End file.
